The Hetalia Chronicles:Pains of the Nations
by doublequartereighthnote
Summary: Every one has skeletons in their closet. These are all the heart breaking tragedies that haunt the Nation's pasts.The chapters within look past the fake smiles and stong composure.Stories of heart break,death,and pain lay inside.Be sure to red the thruth.
1. Chapter 1

** The Hetalia Chronicles:Pains of the Nations**

** France**

** Hetalia: I do not own**

* * *

><p>Everyone assumes this man a pervert or rapist because he merely is. But there is something far deeper behind the story. France lost someone he held very dear to him. Joan of Arc. Foolishly he grew found of her and eventually fell in love with her.<p>

He admired her strength and courage. France was infatuated with her ability to step out of the lines drawn for women of those times. He loved the way she fought as well as any man on the battle field. The memory of her being burned on the stake in her armor forever haunts him.

She was either to be hung as a women (Being accused as a witch) or burned on the cross in her armor. It was her choice to die as she lived; in her battle armor.

Of course France had come. Of course it scared France for life.

The loss of the only women he could ever love changed him. France felt the hole in his heart appear as soon as the flames licked her legs and the screaming began. Ever since, the man has been trying to find something to fill that hole.

Drinking became a more than over active hobby along with patrolling the streets for cheap women of the night to fill his void. Each sip offered him a short while of forgetting what had happened that day. Every woman owned a path of a potential new love.

Nothing came of it.

As time passed, France grew bored of simple street walkers and turned to fellow nations. The easiest was always Britain. Although the French state never loved Britain. Just him being alive nearly as long, it gave his consistency that humans never had. He thought this might fill the hole.

So he chased Britain, feeling the hole fill half way each time. Often he would search for the Brit when thoughts of Joan filled his mind. Sadly for him, it all changed in 1776. When America broke free of the island nation. At first there was no change, and then America confessed he had always loved England.

This concerned and broke France's heart for many reasons. His molesting and stalking of the country shrunk drastically to the minimum. For he still had his heart. If he saw someone doing that to Joan he wouldn't be happy so he reduced his touching to a minimum. Yet another disgusting hobby under the influence of love.

Through all the years he scanned the world for a look alike or even, by chance, a reincarnation. But fate mocked him. It put love of display so he could only observe and wish. Everyone around him in love and happy while he stayed silently miserable forever.

* * *

><p>Francis closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, letting the spring air fill his lungs. The sweet scent of lilies coated his nostrils. He sat under a tree for the cooling shade mixed with the warm breeze. The valley he sat in was cradled between two mountains, giving an amazing view from every angle. It seemed like heaven.<p>

The blue eyes lazily opened. When the lids finally unmask his eyes completely, they fall on something in the distance. Or rather, someone. At first the skirts fluttering in the breeze seemed like an allusion but France knew better. He bolted up and ran to the silhouette.

He nearly tackled her when he wrapped his arms completely around the young girl. "Joan! Joan, Joan, Joan, Joan, Joan, Joan!" France chocked on his words as he felt tears drop quickly from his eyes. The slur of the girl's name sound like begging, pleading, and questioning all in once. "Jeanne d'Arc! My sweet! My love!"

There was a light laugh to be heard. "Francis I know you missed me but I need to breathe!" France smiled and loosened his grip enough to say he wasn't suffocating her. This way he was able to see her face. She smiled at him. "Hello Francis." That name. She was the only human who knew both his names. To her he was Francis Boonefoy _and_ France the country.

"I think we're passed hello, Joan." He smiled sweetly as he referred to moments ago when he was squeezing the air out of her. "Your right. Now is the time to catch up!" Francis' heart dropped like a stone. Mostly because of the past 600 year but also at the smile she gave him.

He drops to his knees and began to sob. She immediately sat herself down next to him. "I'm sorry! Joan! I-I failed you! I am disgusting! Worthless! I don't understand how you can look at me!" His mistakes burn his heart, feeling the true guilt of it all flood into his mind.

Joan smiled softly as silent tears rolled down her rosy cheeks. "I-It's okay…If you waited for me…You'd….You'd never have sex again… I-I'm fine…I could expect you to do that for me…" Francis clasped her hands in his. "Non! That is the problem! I should 'ave been faithful to you! My needs should have taken second place to your emotions! I should have waited! Forever if I had to!"

A shared silence fell between them. Their minds were both stuck on the same thing. They would never be together again. His immortality curses him to live even with the worst injuries. Her death was the end. Somewhere they knew. They knew their love would be cut short. But not that short.

"I should have never…" Francis began. "I should have never let you fall into Britain's hands." He gripped on of the skirts pooled around him. "I should have saved you that day. I should have cut you free. I should have done everything I could to help you-"

"But you did," He looked up at her smiling, red face. "You gave me the world and that's what I needed. And when I was executed, you were there." Her eyes dripped again. "If you weren't there I would have died without seeing your face one more time. But I did. S-So thank you. Thank you for everything you've done for me."

Francis starred at her through his tears. The only thing he could think to do was kiss her. He leaned in to take her cold lips. As he got closer, though, she began to fade. Her hands, her skirt, her lips all fading into nothing but air. The scene around him too began to dissolve as pigment by pigment faded into sheer darkness.

He cried her name and begged her to return to him. Nothing came of it.

Francis bolted out up right in his bed. He sighed and whipped the cold sweat off his forehead. _The same dream again._

* * *

><p><strong>HEY GUYS! Whats up? Haha...France depression... So how'd you guys like it? Reviews are deepily loved. Anyways I will be writing the sob story for a lot of the characters. Prussia, Romano, Canada, England, ect. I WILL TAKE REQUESTS! Review or PM me if you want a sob story on your favorite characters. And I might put in your favorite parring (If I don't hate it that much) even though I did put a dash of FrUk in there even though I HATE THAT PARRING! *Cough* anyways... Just contact me and talk to me^^ I'm not as crazy as I sound (Or am I?) Hahaha review!<strong>

**OH AND BY THE WAY! THE TITLE IS ALL DAISY-MAX1196! SHE GETS ALL THE CREDIT FOR THE TITLE! MUAHAHAHAHA!**


	2. Chapter 2

** T**he Hetalia Chronicles:Pains of the Nations****

**** America****

* * *

><p>He was such a lonely hero, staring down at his city with sad eyes ready to drop. He climbed to the top of The Empire State Building again. Just so he can stare at his city. The light burned bright for him. This is where his heart was. New York City was the center of the world at this point. He made no friend getting to this point.<p>

America wasn't liked by his Allies. He was put up with. Since he was the world power they couldn't possibly be on his bad side. If they were, they would be drained to a point of extinction. They resent him, they envy him, they hate him, Most of all, they fear him.

Such raw power lies in his hands. He has one of the world's biggest weapons. He has knowledge of all their languages. He has control over the world's fate. He has the strongest army in the world. And hes so young. It's only been 236 year since he gained independence. He has already been through a civil war and two world wars. Being the turning point in each.

He is the free world. He is an empire in his own way. He fought for his title. He is so powerful and strong. Even now. In his darkest days.

America is going to be the next Rome. He knows that empires only stay in power for about 200 years. His clock was ticking and mid night was approaching quickly.

The fairy tale of America was slowly depleting. They pressure him to keep up the world _and _his own people. All the blame for the world's problems is placed on his shoulders. They laugh at him for his ways even though it was their influence, mocking, and insults that make him like this. He is a melting pot of everyone which may have brought his country together before but is now tearing him apart.

He asked China for help. He needed cheap goods so he could focus on other things but that only worsened his economy and debt. Help didn't come cheap even though he offered his for free. He was a giver, not a taker and the world just kept taking. Now when he tries to take, it's called a debt.

America felt his tears fall. He looked down at the people walking down below. The looked like ants. He then wonders what it would feel like to jump. And what would happen if he did. As a country he could not die. But what would it feel like to be dead for only a moment then wake up in the Whitehouse perfectly fine. He has been shot before. In the head. That's what happened then. He woke up with John Adams next to him. He remembers how peaceful the seconds in between were. It was silent and serine. Cooling came over him. He just floated about until he was dragged back into his body and forced to open his eyes. The voices and the pressure came flooding back.

The voices torment him more than everything else. He can hear all the opinions and voices throughout his country. People cheering for gay marriage. People shunning abortion. He sees visions of people's lives as well. Those are his dreams. He'll see weddings, child births, fights, and abuse, break ups, deaths. It's maddening. He doesn't doubt other countries see it. He just believes he sees and hears it more.

Sometimes he wishes he never separated from England. Then he would be the world greatest empire. He wouldn't have this weight. He'd be a colony. He'd have brothers and sisters he could have fun with. He wouldn't have the entire world watching his every move. He could go to England when he had his nightmares. He could let England crash as hard as he is about to.

The wind blew through his blonde hair, causing a chill to run down his spine. He was only had his bomber jacket to protect him from the elements. Which wasn't that bad. It was only fall. He was used to his own frigid winters from when he stayed in Alaska.

As he felt his feel dangle off America curled his upper body in. Hes had a fear of falling since 9/11. If he even falls down a single step the two large scars on his back burned as if it was the day the appeared. In fact, all his scars stung. He had countless ones. Whenever one was provoked so were the others. The one across his heart from the revolutionary war. The one down the middle of his chest from the civil war. All the ones from adding new states and territories. His body was so worn and sliced it ached with little irritation.

America is scared. He feels his energy draining every day. He throws up constantly. He shakes randomly and when something goes wrong he coughs up blood.

He stood up from his spot, wobbling a bit. The ground looked so close. He was compelled and frightened. Two forces screamed in his head louder than all the minor voices. One of a country who can feel his skin start to prickle. The other being a helpless human who just wants it to be over. To feel no more. To hear no voices other than his own. A human who just wants to be sane.

Alfred's breath caught in his throat. All it took was one jump and he would fly. Alfred Jones could soar over the city of lights and give them a show that they would never forget. The admission was free and all you had to do was pass by the empire state building. He be lost for moment. Maybe, if he was lucky, his human body would take it's time to come back. He'd be recovering from his act for months so his soul could be weightless in the never ending blackness of the void countries go for their moments of peace.

Alfred's blue eyes gazed up at the stars. The infinitely beautiful balls of gas that have been around longer than him. _Refreshing_ he thought. It was hard to find things that surpassed him. Even if he was young.

"I'll see you soon old friends." He whispered to the things that have always been there, always listened, and will last longer than he.

His knees bent and his arms where out like an eagles. As his legs straightened he felt as if he was his eagle. Put on a pedestal not deserved, looking down on the ants below, and majestic until proven cruel. There is one difference. And eagle can fly.

His eyes cracked open. Around him were the people who cared. Obama and England. His bed in the Whitehouse was the same. He moved. His body was the same. Everything was the same except for one thing.

America looked down at his wrist. There, was a brand new scar. One he had never seen. It was jagged and fresh. It marked that he jumped.

It marked the day he tried to get out of his cursed life.

* * *

><p><strong>GODDAMNIT. WHY AM I SO DRESSING!? MEH MEEEEEH! This is what I do when I'm bored! Write depressing shit! And about my baby too! Aw why!? Why Eighthnote why!? It hurts! It hurtsssss!<strong>

**Anywho, so this is what I do instead of updating. Great eh? I'm so sorry about late everything. Band+hardest/best teacher in the school=NO UPDATES! Well I plan to break that now so I'll be working on your favorites soon! Twisted reality should be next…. YAY!**


End file.
